


Driven Snow

by lastdream



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Aromantic Character, Asexual Character, Canon Era, F/M, Jealousy, Love Confessions, M/M, Unrequited Love, Unsafe Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-24
Updated: 2015-03-24
Packaged: 2018-03-19 10:23:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3606627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lastdream/pseuds/lastdream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fed up with Grantaire's teasing, Enjolras finally agrees to lose his virginity. Grantaire can only blame himself for the fact that this somehow means he has to watch the man he loves sleep with some random woman.</p>
<p>Or he could blame the absinthe. That works too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Driven Snow

**Author's Note:**

> For this kink meme prompt: http://makinghugospin.livejournal.com/14280.html?thread=14029512#t14029512
> 
> Ace!Combeferre, an aro!OC, Enjolras caring about women, improbable 1800s casual sex, and an author who was too lazy for historical condom research. I promise this somehow turns out well!

Grantaire had tried so hard drink only wine during the meeting.

He had put forth such effort.

But then Enjolras made so bold a move as to exist in the same room as Grantaire, and it was no longer enough to keep him steady. It was definitely Enjolras’ fault, because he was so beautiful and fiery all the time.

Except that Grantaire cannot blame Enjolras for anything, so he has to blame himself instead. Par for the course. Who else can he blame for the fact that he is so pathetically in love with this man? Who but him can be at fault for the fact that Grantaire needs absinthe to keep his fingers from shaking at the sight of him?

Grantaire can only blame himself for his humiliating obsession, but he can definitely blame the absinthe for what’s happening now.

“It’s utterly repulsive! Women, most of them honest workers, turned out of jobs because they are found to be mistresses of men— even unmarried men, men like you who committed no more crime than to love a woman and have no means to marry her, men who were probably lauded for their ability to procure such a woman— and then forced from that honest work into dishonest work: prostitution. Work low and demeaning, reducing what was once a whole woman with thoughts and feelings to an aggregation of physical traits to be bought and paid for by whatever man has a whim for her! She is stripped of choice, of agency, and of humanity, and she can never regain what she has lost, because society will forever turn her away. Society put her down with unreasonable expectations for her purity— expectations not applied to men— and kept her down with disgust for the position she was forced into. And this position in which she has no choice is not even enough to provide for her life, let alone for her health, safety, or comfort. How many women die of cold or hunger or illness because they cannot afford to sell themselves dearly enough to live? It is repulsive,” Enjolras repeated, with emphasis, “and I will have no part in it.”

“So the reason you won’t have even one woman is because you’d be killing her? Even you cannot disappoint so badly in bed. Besides, she does not have to be your mistress.” Grantaire should stop talking now. Usually the only thing that makes his desperate love for Enjolras bearable is the fact that Enjolras is disinterested in everyone, not just him. He should not encourage Enjolras to bed another.

He blames the absinthe.

“If I sleep with someone— just once— will you stop badgering me over my chastity?” No, he really wouldn’t. Nothing but a mention of Napoleon could get that fierce look turned on Grantaire with such speed, and he wouldn’t give that look up for anything.

“I won’t believe you’ve done it.”

“Combeferre will vouch for me.”

“Combeferre is as pure as you are and averse into the bargain; he’d lie for you if you asked.” He’s honorable enough that he might not, but they all know how Combeferre can barely stand to think of lying with someone for a few moments before he tinges with green. Purity for him is not a virtue but a necessity and a natural state of being, and Grantaire won’t burden him with involvement in this affair. He wonders why Enjolras tried to.

“Will you be present, then? To see that I have kept my end?” Grantaire chokes. It takes a long kiss from the green fairy to give him courage to speak again. He’s going to decline, to say that Courfeyrac is much better suited.

“I’ll watch if you like,” slips out instead. The green fairy is treacherous, and Grantaire blames her viciously. Enjolras responds with a curious look that Grantaire can’t read, and then the discussion is over.

At least, it’s over until the meeting proper is over. Grantaire is always last out, staying for those last few glasses or cups or bottles, depending on the day. This time, Combeferre lingers as well.

“I may be ascetic, but I cannot in good conscience allow you to hurt yourself like this,” he says. Because it’s Combeferre, the words are mild and concerned, not pointed or harsh.

“I’ll be fine.” Because it’s Combeferre, a skeptical look can be substituted for a paragraph of disapproving text. Quickly, Grantaire thinks of some probable excuse. “He’s willing to be vulnerable like that— in front of me. I could use that to prop up my pathetic heart for months. Probably the rest of my life, with the way he’s going.”

Combeferre takes the seat next to Grantaire and borrows his bottle for a spell, drinking evenly and swallowing smoothly. Grantaire is impressed.

“I wish I could see it that way.”

“That he’s about to get us all killed?”

“That being in the room with him while he does— that— is an act of trust. That I could value it for what it means instead of being sickened by what it is.”

“None of us blames you for that, least of all him,” Grantaire says, trying to be reassuring. Combeferre looks amused.

“Is that your gift, to notice the wrong half of everything I say? I must be blunt then: I wish I could accept what he wanted to give me.” Oh. Oh. Grantaire passes the bottle over immediately and Combeferre takes it with a wry twist of his mouth.

“But he loves you in spirit, and that is something.” Grantaire is trying not to sound bitter.

“It is everything I can accept but not everything he can give. It is his nature that all his passions find recipients.”

“So you have not told him.”

“I thought at first that he knew, and that was why he imposed such willpower.” Combeferre drinks again. “And then I thought it was no matter, for he would surely burn out beside me before that passion found an outlet."

“I am sorry,” Grantaire says with feeling.

“Do not be. I have had my share of him, and now I have Courfeyrac, who asks no love of his partners in lust, nor lust of his partner in love.” He smiles just a little. "It is time for you to have a share."

“He disdains me as he breathes. He counts my value too low to pay it with any fragment of himself.”

“It is you who counts that value, R.”

“How can you know that?”

“As I know that Marius will return to his grandfather, someday. Both have natures that come to anger when they meet with confusion; anger scarcely felt and rarely meant. Marius will understand this when he learns to open his eyes. So should you.”

Grantaire was unreasonably elated by the idea that Enjolras did not hate him after all. He took another drink from the bottle, but this one in celebration. He had lied to Combeferre; he had thought at first that Enjolras knew how he felt and meant this as some cruel taunt or punishment, but if Enjolras had not known even Combeferre’s heart then surely he did not know Grantaire’s. Perhaps it was an act of trust after all, a proof that he was not merely disdained. 

The agony of seeing Enjolras with another could almost be made up for this way.

 

It's a few days later, after a meeting, that the half-formed plan comes to fruition. This time it is Enjolras who stays behind to catch Grantaire, and it is not Dionysos who fills Grantaire’s cup.

For all that this night will be brutal, Grantaire cannot bring himself to give up the memory of his love’s face in baser passion.

“Shall we find you a grisette, then?” he asks, preempting Enjolras. Grantaire doesn't want to know how Enjolras would have begun this conversation.

“If we must,” Enjolras replies, sighing.

“What you are going to do is not some painful ordeal. Quite the opposite, actually.”

“How do you suggest I do it, then?”

“One begins by entering a wine-shop, then notices some lovely creature, and proceeds to speak to her. About herself, not her rights and her place in society.”

“And this entices her to one’s bed?”

“No, your face does that for you. You need only convince her that you are not a fool or inclined to mistreat her, and that you like her.”

“It cannot be so simple.”

“That is because the face you are looking at is mine, and not your own.”

Enjolras makes a sound of exasperation but continues to follow Grantaire up the street. Eventually they come to a promising place, and Grantaire holds the door open for Enjolras to step inside. It is warmly lit and smells strongly of alcohol, which is tempting to Grantaire, but he follows Enjolras without allowing himself the distraction. Once they have gained a small table, they sit facing one another.

“You have entered; now you must notice,” Grantaire instructs.

“I have,” Enjolras mutters, looking straight ahead. Grantaire turns to look behind himself and sees a slender young girl with rich brown hair just beginning to fall out of the day’s curls. She isn't so attractive as Enjolras— isn't worthy of him, some part of Grantaire’s mind says— but that will only make this easier. She is pretty enough to believe that an offer from Enjolras is in earnest, but not so pretty as to be likely to refuse him.

“Good choice. Now, speak to her. Forget that you are a revolutionary. Remember that you are kind and that you like her. That is what she will hear when you speak.”  
Enjolras gives another little exasperated sigh and walks over, greeting the girl with a smile that is very charming. Though Grantaire can see that it is false, he doesn't think she will. He turns his own gaze on a different girl nearby, so that when she looks back at Enjolras’ friend she won't think him staring. Enjolras might know better, but then, he is used to being stared at by Grantaire.

“R!” Enjolras calls out after a while. This is the part that might drive the girl away, the part where they convince her that Grantaire ought to accompany them. He heads over as slowly as is believable. “R, this is Claire. Claire, may I introduce you to my friend, Grantaire?”

“Hello,” she says, demure. She seems sweet enough, at least, but she’ll probably need some convincing before she allows him in as well as Enjolras.

“Enjolras, you have made a mistake,” he declares with mock offense, “You demean her by calling her only Claire. You should have said, Clair de Lune. You are as beautiful, Mademoiselle.”

“You are too blatant, Monsieur,” she scolds him. “You shall never win your lady this way.”

“Ah, perhaps not. But at least my friend shall be taught to win his; has he not told you that he is quite untutored?” Enjolras colors, just slightly about his lovely cheekbones, and Grantaire knows that he has not. Claire, however, laughs delightedly.

“It is a lady he is to win, then? Very well, I shall teach him how to have one. Do come along,” she says as she makes her way to the door. Grantaire doesn’t know what Enjolras had said to her to convince her, and Enjolras looks a little sheepish when Grantaire catches his eye, but both of them follow her.

They end up going to Grantaire’s rooms, because he has the fewest roommates and political pamphlets strewn around. It’s not as clean as he’d like it to be, but he had made an effort earlier that week when the possibility that Enjolras would be bedding someone in his room came into existence. They enter following Claire, who doesn’t seem nearly as demure here as she did in the wine-shop. Good, Grantaire thinks, Enjolras deserves a girl who knows what she wants. They both sit to take off their shoes, Claire avoiding the awkwardness from experience, Enjolras from sheer practicality.

Claire strips Enjolras of his layers one by one; coat, waistcoat, cravat, and shirt follow each other onto the back of a chair. Grantaire watches every movement of her fingers with jealous eyes, allowed because if asked, he can claim he is watching her fingers and not the skin they reveal so tantalizingly slowly. He double-checks: yes, she has graceful fingers, that excuse will pass.

Enjolras glances over at Grantaire, who quickly redirects his eyes to Claire, beginning to unlace the back of her own dress. She can’t manage all of it, however, so she turns to present her back to Enjolras.

“I do not know how,” Enjolras admits. He does not seem shamed by the confession, however; rather he seems amused. By what, Grantaire cannot guess.

“Well, R, won’t you help your friend?” Claire asks. “Your fingers look clever enough to undo me.”

Is she flirting with him? In front of the man she agreed to bed?

Grantaire comes over anyway and joins Enjolras behind her, trying so hard to ignore the warmth of bare skin pressed against his side. He isn’t wearing a coat, so he feels it all along his sleeved arm as he guides Enjolras to unlace her, taking her apart one piece at a time. Dress, skirts, garters, stockings, stays, slip— Enjolras seems astounded by the amount of clothing she wears. At last, only Claire stands before them, and Grantaire withdraws to the chair, turning it just slightly so he can watch. He’ll be fine.

Claire lays her small, pretty hands on Enjolras’ chest and begins to stroke skin that could have been modeled from Apollo Belvedere. 

This is Enjolras trusting him, Grantaire thinks.

Claire runs her hands down to the fall of his trousers and unbuttons it, sliding them down Enjolras’ legs.

This is an act of trust, Grantaire thinks harder.

Enjolras steps out of his trousers and lays his hands on Claire for the first time, moving from her shoulders down her arms, and then to her small, pretty breasts.

Trust, Grantaire screams at himself.

They walk backwards to the low bed so that Enjolras can sit and Claire can station herself in his lap, almost but not quite blocking the view of Enjolras’ face.

Grantaire gives up. He watches their tableau with unrestrained desire, greedily drinking in every bit of skin he can see.

Claire’s hands move lower and begin to tease Enjolras to hardness. Grantaire would do that with his mouth, he thinks, would draw him in soft and feel every twitch as he filled and warmed in his mouth. She takes Enjolras’ hand in hers and brings it to her center, guiding two fingers inside. Grantaire would slick himself for Enjolras while he sucked him, so that Enjolras wouldn’t be inconvenienced by any wait and could just slide inside, burning hot and stretching and owning every part of him, body as well as soul.

When she’s ready, Claire pushes Enjolras down so he’s lying flat on the thin mattress. His cock is only visible for a moment, but it looks long and hot and red. Grantaire thinks the red is so fitting, for a moment, before chastising himself because that is always the color. Then Claire sinks down on Enjolras, and he can only think, at least there’s one thing we do the same way. She moves up and down on him at a fast clip, making him arch and release his first sounds.

Grantaire wants so badly to have been the one to elicit those sounds.

Claire keeps moving quickly, even when it seems like it’s beginning to be a little too much for Enjolras. She circles her hips and rocks and sighs. She’s quiet, for which Grantaire is grateful, but she’s clearly enjoying this very much. 

This isn’t like Grantaire at all anymore. He wouldn’t hold Enjolras down and take pleasure from him, he would lay him down and neglect his own pleasure so that all Enjolras had to do was experience. Even more than the desperate desire to touch him, it hurts to know that he could have been better for Enjolras than Claire is. That he could have made this so good for him and he isn’t, he just has to watch Claire being inadequate, and Enjolras is going to get himself killed in a couple of months and he’ll never know just how good it can be.

Grantaire doesn’t know what to call the swirl of anger and jealousy and bitterness that rises in his throat, but it makes it hard to look at them, even as Enjolras throws his head back and spills his golden curls all over the pillow. The arch of his throat is like artwork.

His sounds are getting louder, more and more bitten-off gasps of Claire’s name included as if to spite Grantaire. 

Enjolras comes quickly— too quickly, Claire was too rough with him— as she pulls off to let him spill on his own stomach. He breathes one, two, three times before turning to lay Claire on the bed beside him and put his fingers back inside her. Enjolras’ fingers are dextrous, but Grantaire watches his back instead, the slight pull of muscle under the skin as he shifts, the shine of sweat still cooling. He doesn’t seem nearly as affected by the loss of his virginity as he ought to be; if it had been Grantaire, he would have made sure Enjolras was limp with pleasure by the end.

Once Claire has come as well, she climbs off the bed entirely and cleans Enjolras with a rag she finds on the floor. Grantaire decides to burn it to purge this memory; he’s bitter enough that he’s not even half hard, even faced with all of Enjolras’ bare skin.

“You’re better than I expected,” she says. “I wish you good luck.”

They’re all silent as she slips back into her things and leaves. It’s scandalously rude to let a woman walk home alone at night, but Grantaire doesn’t think he could do anything to help her right now if he tried.

“Are you satisfied?” Enjolras asks, not as acid as usual. Grantaire ignores him.

“You were cheated! Even knowing tonight ought to have been for you, she took everything for herself. It’s—“

“An injustice over which you are passionate,” says Enjolras. “Astounding.”

“I could have done better for you were I too drunk to stand or see,” Grantaire says angrily.

“You should have offered, then,” Enjolras says. 

Grantaire’s brain stutters to a halt.

“Would you repeat that?”

“I would have preferred to lose my virginity with you, but you seemed insistent that a girl must be involved. Claire is happy to have nearly anyone who promises not to fall in love with her, so it was easy enough to ask her. She belongs to a society like ours among the factory women.”

“I’m afraid I still don’t understand.”

“It was Claire’s idea that this be better for her than for me. I thought it was fine, but she suspected you would be more likely to act if she clearly enjoyed it more. She has no interest in love herself, but she’s heard enough about jealousy.”

Grantaire just stares at him.

“Grantaire,” Enjolras sighs, “I was really hoping to have much better second-time sex with you tonight, but if you’re just going to gape like that—“

“No—what—yes, of course I want to have— why would you want to sleep with me?” At that, Enjolras actually looks a little sad.

“I have had— feelings, for you, for a while now. It’s fine if you don’t feel the same, I just thought you’d be willing to give me one night, at least.” He turns and begins to gather his clothes. “I’ll just go, then.”

All at once everything clicks into place, like the turn of clock gears setting off the chime.

“No, don’t!” As Enjolras turns back around in surprise, Grantaire surges forward and kisses him as hard as he dares before drawing back, breathless at his own audacity. Enjolras’ eyes harden.

“Don’t you dare do anything for pity.”

“No, I wouldn’t,” Grantaire says, soft and earnest. “I— I’m in love with you.”

“You are?” There’s a soft, hopeful look on Enjolras’ face, and Grantaire would do almost anything to keep it there.

“I thought you knew. Everyone else does.” It backfires; Enjolras loses his composure entirely.

“You thought I would ask you here, knowing you wanted it but could not have it?” He looks almost stricken. “Our friends would have let me do that to you? Knowing how you felt, Combeferre didn’t tell me? Or you how I felt?”

“I would have come whether they let you or not; I had to see," says Grantaire, trying to salvage this. "Combeferre told me that you didn’t hate me.”

“You thought I hated you.” Enjolras sinks to the bed and stares at the floor, and Grantaire feels lost. He doesn’t know how to tell Enjolras that it was more what Grantaire thought of himself, at least not without bringing that pity down on his own head.

“It’s not your fault,” he tries.

“Whose fault can it be but mine?” Enjolras asks despairingly.

“It can be mine, if you like. Or, we can do what I do when I am too weary to blame myself any more.”

“What is that?”

“We can blame the absinthe, of course.”

Enjolras looks up and laughs a little, and Grantaire counts it as a success.

“Would you—“ he feels almost shy asking, even now, “Would you kiss me, please? Just so I know that this is real?”

“Of course. Now and any time you wish,” Enjolras says, and presses their mouths together. It’s abundantly clear that this is the first kiss he’s given, but it’s all the more wonderful for that. It’s a heady thought, that this is the second kiss of his life and it’s with Grantaire. That he has feelings for Grantaire. Hesitantly, Grantaire introduces his tongue, and Enjolras jumps back. “What are you doing?” It’s a little amusing that Enjolras knows what to do with his cock but not his tongue, though Grantaire supposes most of his information must be coming from Courfeyrac. 

“Relax, my love, this will feel good.” The rush from saying those words is incredible. Grantaire resumes the kiss quickly and opens his mouth again, slowly coaxing Enjolras’ to open as well. Their tongues touch, and Enjolras moans, and they both lose track of time.

“I should tell you—“ Enjolras gasps out as they break for air, “I love you too. I didn’t say as much, earlier. I thought I should, to avoid further— ah— misunderstandings.”

Grantaire isn’t the swooning kind, so when he falls to his knees it’s just so he can get his mouth closer to Enjolras’ still-bare cock. 

“I was rather hoping to feel you go hard in my mouth,” he says, disappointed, but he takes Enjolras in anyway. The hardness is heavy and wonderful on his tongue as he begins to move slowly, enough to feel good but not enough to drive Enjolras onward. He deserves a round that lasts for a long, long time.

“Plenty of time for that later,” Enjolras says in a strained voice. One of his hands comes to rest in Grantaire’s hair. He’s too egalitarian to actually push Grantaire down, but Grantaire pretends he isn’t and goes down harder anyway. His shocked moan is actually kind of endearing. “Oh, oh ‘aire, that’s so good.” It occurs to Grantaire that the bitten-off ‘aire of earlier might’ve been Grantaire and not Claire, and suddenly he can’t wait any more.

Grantaire gives a slow parting kiss to the head of Enjolras’ cock and reaches under the bed for the bottle of oil he keeps there (for the nights when it’s better to pretend Enjolras is there than to find someone to disappoint him). It takes only a matter of moments for him to shuck his clothes and then he’s back on his knees, preparing himself as quickly as he can. All the focus he can spare goes to keeping his mouth on Enjolras, but the pleasure and anticipation from his fingers makes it difficult.

“Come on, let me help,” Enjolras insists. He pulls Grantaire up into his lap, just where Claire had been, and he slides two fingers to rub at the stretched rim of Grantaire’s hole, just as he had with Claire, but this time his expression is awed, amazed by Grantaire, and that only makes Grantaire stroke faster at himself.

“I’m ready,” he gasps, reaching forward to slick Enjolras’ cock. Before he can slide down on it, however, Enjolras has grasped him by the shoulders and rolled them over. This is so different that it drives Claire from his mind. “I was going to make it good for you,” he says helplessly.

“It’ll be good because it’s you, and because we love each other. If that isn’t enough I don’t know what is.”

“Practice?” Grantaire chokes out as Enjolras presses the head of his cock against his rim. Enjolras laughs as he pushes inside.

“Oh, you feel wonderful, R.”

Grantaire can’t respond at all, he’s so overwhelmed. No one has ever stretched him exactly like this before, no one has ever burned quite this hot inside him; no one has ever been Enjolras with him before. It’s good and perfect and he needs so much more. Enjolras is so slow, though, gently pushing all the way in until their bodies are flush and he only has to shift a half-inch to be kissing Grantaire again.

“Tell me when you’re ready,” Enjolras murmurs.

“Right now,” Grantaire responds, unable to take waiting anymore. He tries so hard to be patient, because this has to last longer, has to be good for Enjolras, but it’s entirely possible that he’ll come even faster than Enjolras did.

Then Enjolras starts moving, and Grantaire knows he’ll come first. The thrusts start slowly, but Enjolras is moving quicker and quicker with hard, helpless jerks of his hips. Before long he’s driving a whimper out of Grantaire with every stroke.

It’s so, so good, having Enjolras inside him and over him and around him and breathing into his mouth. It’s nearly enough.

“Tell me—“ he gasps.

“I love you,” Enjolras says immediately, not slowing for a second. Grantaire shakes his head.

“Tell me I’m yours,” he whispers. At this distance he can watch the process that thought takes through the immediate egalitarian denial and the republican rhetoric until it finally strikes at his heart. It makes Enjolras move even faster as he says in a low, fierce voice,

“You’re mine, Grantaire, I love you and you’re mine— oh, ‘aire, I won’t last much longer.”

“Just one more time,” Grantaire says, arching hard to try to get Enjolras deeper inside. Enjolras leans even further down, until Grantaire’s own cock is pressed between them.

“Mine,” he says in Grantaire’s ear, and Grantaire comes hard, clenching down.

“Enjolras!” he cries out on the tidal wave of pleasure. It’s a long time until he comes down enough to realize he’s been whimpering, “Yours, yours, yours.”

They lie still for a several minutes before Enjolras’ cock finally slips out, too soft to stay, and Grantaire regrets the absence. It’s only then that he realizes that he never once thought to touch his own cock.

Clean up is quick and sloppy, both of them too fucked out to stay awake.

 

In the morning Grantaire wakes up and looks out at his empty quarters and tries not to cry. It isn’t the first time a dream has been so bitterly cruel, but it is one of the most vivid. He takes a quick, shallow breath to steady himself.

“Are you alright?”

It wasn’t a dream. That voice belongs to Enjolras, Enjolras lying in the bed behind Grantaire, rolling him over to peer at him with concern.

“Hello,” he says, smiling sleepily up at Enjolras. The blond curls are in lovely disarray, but he looks as beautiful as ever.

“I love you.”

Grantaire’s grin widens and he pulls Enjolras down against him, just to look at him and feel their skin touch at every point.

“I love you too.”

Enjolras’ smile would make the sun jealous, but Grantaire doesn’t have to be. Not anymore.


End file.
